


All the Times Something ALMOST Happened

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post The Great Game, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Pre-A Scandal in Belgravia, Pre-A Study in Pink, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploring without porn, all the stuff that led up to all the porn. I do LOVE the porn, but this porn free. : )</p><p>So, no explicit stuff here, just John and Sherlock dancing around what they dance around in canon. And being cute. All three seasons will eventually be included. WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The First Time

It was a typical night at Baker Street. John was tapping away at his computer on one end of the sofa, white light illuminating his face, and I was on the other end, making notes, texting, reading, fidgeting, driving John crazy. 

“My god, Sherlock if you can’t keep still, can you please sit somewhere else? I am trying to write, and I can’t think when you’re bouncing all over the sofa like a puppy.” John was staring at me. Those denim blue eyes. Long lashes. His eyelid twitched. Angry. Pulse heightened, breathing only through his nose. His tell, when he was upset. The nose breathing. 

I narrowed my eyes, shooting him a nasty grin that I knew would make him even angrier. God, why did I do this? Because it’s how you deal with it, Sherlock, the voice in my mind answered. You piss him off so you don’t have to think about the other things. 

“No. You move.” I flopped on my side, stretching out along the length of the sofa, and digging my toes under John’s warm thigh, as I was wont to do lately. “Anyway, I don’t believe *thinking* really enters the picture when it comes to your blog.” 

The things I said to him. Pushing, always pushing, seeing where the line was where he would walk away, or start to hate me. The same self-destructive instinct that made me not eat. How miserable can I make myself before I actually have to do something about it? 

“Fuck off, Sherlock.” John slammed his laptop shut, set it on the floor, and stalked into the kitchen. 

He was getting a beer. There were usually 3 possibilities when I made him just angry enough to leave the room I was in, but not angry enough to leave the flat. The most common choice, the one he chose 57% of the time, was to get a beer. 

He flopped back down on the sofa when he returned. He made no effort to remove my feet from his seat. My toes were under his arse now. I wiggled them experimentally. Oh. He shivered, and I saw a slight flush rise up on his cheeks. He didn’t say anything. I pushed them a little further under him. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

He picked up his laptop again, set it on his legs, opened it. He drained his beer in one long gulp. “I am going to work now, Sherlock.” He pointed at me. John’s fingers. Strong. Rough. John’s face, jawline tight, giving me that look that confused me, made my stomach clench involuntarily. My body reacted to John in ways it never had reacted to anyone in my life. 

He nodded, more to himself than to me, and went back to typing. I picked up my phone, pretended to be texting. I was actually observing John, as I often did. While his blog truly was unimaginably shite, I did enjoy watching his fingers moving over the keyboard. Sure, confident. He rarely deleted words. He knew exactly what he wanted to say. And his face when he was concentrating. Lips pursed, brow furrowed. He had a habit of looking down to the right - only to the right, never left - when he was thinking hard. I liked watching his eyes shifting. I liked the colour of his eyes. I had never LIKED anyone’s eye colour before John. I always made note of it, in case it turned out to be important data, but I never had a preference. 

A half hour passed. Some wretched pop song was playing on John’s computer. I sighed, something that usually got his attention. He made no show of having heard me. I sighed again, louder. Nothing. Wiggled my feet under his arse. He dropped a hand to my ankle, fingers tucking under the hem of my pyjama bottoms. Thumb rubbing over my ankle bone. New data. This had never happened before. My own skin vibrating under John’s fingers, pulse picking up. 

He typed with one hand for several minutes, his hand still on my ankle. Finally, he snapped the laptop shut and put it down. He looked at me. Affection? Some. Irritation? Certainly that.

“You know, Sherlock, if you want my attention, you can just talk to me, like a normal person. All this sighing and fake texting, it doesn’t do it for me, mate.” So he knew about the fake texting. Damn. 

His hand still had not left my ankle. In fact, was slightly higher now, thumb pressing into the more fleshy part of my calf, inside my pyjamas, slowly rubbing a rhythm into my skin. This was new. And not something I believed he would have done with anyone else he called “mate.” I tried to imagine John rubbing Lestrade’s ankle. The thought made me laugh, and also oddly...what? Jealous? 

I sat up, bending my knees, crossing my arms over them, feet still tucked under John, and rested my chin on my crossed arms. I allowed my fringe to fall across my forehead. He liked that. I had seen the change in his eyes when my hair got messy. Reason I kept it long. 

I looked into his eyes. Blue, so blue. Could not remember what I was going to say to him. Pulse quickening. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was an octave deeper than it normally was, husky. Colour on his cheeks. “What’re…” 

Our faces were extremely close to each other - 10 centimeters, give or take. John reached up, taking his hand off of my leg, and brushed the hair off of my forehead. I knew he liked that. His breathing had quickened, his eyes focused on my mouth. Gooseflesh on his arms. I didn’t know what I wanted to happen. I just liked to have John’s attention on me, completely on me. 

He leaned forward - 2 centimeters. Our eyes were boring into each other. The air between us felt...thick. Charged with electricity. John licked his lips, swallowed hard. He was going to kiss me. Finally. 

“Yoohoo!!!” Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs, bursting to 221B without hesitation, as she always did. 

John leapt away from me, actually got up off the sofa, the warm weight of his arse leaving my feet cold. My jaw clenched in frustration. Do not yell at Mrs. Hudson. John will be angry with you, Sherlock. Do not yell.

“Mrs Hudson! Do you not ever KNOCK?” Dammit. Yelled at Mrs. Hudson. Look at John, is he angry? Yes. And uncomfortable, and oh, a little aroused, look at that. 

“Oh, Sherlock. This is my house.” She flipped a hand at me, walked into the kitchen, set a plate on the counter, “I brought you boys some biscuits, just made.”

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson.” John sounded much more normal than I felt the situation warranted. 

“Well. I’ll leave you to it then, boys.” She looked between us a few times, over-lipsticked mouth pinched, clearly thinking. Don’t try and deduce, Mrs. Hudson. You’ll just embarrass yourself. 

After she’d gone, John looked to me, biting his upper lip with his bottom row of teeth, his arms behind him, wrists clenched in opposite hands. Ah. He was closed to me again. The moment of opportunity had passed. 

“Well. Sherlock. I’m off to bed. Early day at surgery tomorrow, you know.” John rocked on his heels. Another nervous habit of his. 

“Alright John. Goodnight.” I stood up, took two long strides to where he stood in the middle of the room. What would he do?

He looked up at me, mouth tight. He would do nothing. Oh, wait. I was wrong. I was so often wrong about John. The only person I knew that I couldn’t dissect within seconds. Here was his hand coming up, resting on the side of my face, warm and strong. The only hand I would ever care to have touching my face this way. 

He stared at me a long moment, not moving. Then he smiled. Sad smile. Regretful. Shit. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He dropped his hand and walked upstairs. I laid down on the sofa, putting my hand over my own face where John’s hand had been. Why was I doing that? Makes no sense. I lay there for hours, not moving, feeling his hand on my face, until I pass out, those denim blue eyes filling my dreams.


	2. The Second Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAMF! John defends Sherlock.

“Sherlock, DUCK!” 

I obeyed John’s disembodied voice without thinking, dropping down immediately into a crouch. I heard, rather than saw, the movement where my head had been moments before, as something heavy and metal - no, not just metal, aluminium - whizzed through the air. 

The object clattered to the ground 7 yards beyond me. Ah, it was a hubcap. I could tell from the sound as it hit the cobblestones and spun 18 times before coming to a stop. 

I still couldn’t SEE anything. No idea how John had known I needed to duck. No idea where John was now. We’d dropped our torches in the tunnel prior to the one we were in now, and helplessly watched them roll off the cobblestones into a storm drain. 

The suspect we’d been chasing was still there. No footsteps. No distant noises. He must be hovering in the atrium area ahead of us, that we’d seen before losing our torches. And he’d just attempted to decapitate me with a hubcap. I remained crouched, clicking through various scenarios of how we could extricate ourselves from this situation. 

I sensed movement to my right. Before I could react, a firm hand on my arm, and suddenly John’s lips were against my ear, barely whispering, “Shhh. Don’t fucking move. Not an inch.”

I nodded in reply. My voice carried. Clearly, silence was necessary now, and I did not want to give us away. 

I felt John tensing beside me. I could almost hear his eyes closing. Ah. I knew what he was doing. He was listening for where the suspect was. He had learned to do this in Afghanistan, out in the darkness of the desert. He was listening with his entire body, waiting. And suddenly, though I had heard nothing, he jumped up to standing, and I felt his arm stretch out over my head. BOOM. He fired, just once, and the entire tunnel was lit up momentarily, and then I heard the sound of a body hitting hard stone. 

And then John was pulling his phone out, dialing Lestrade. “Greg, it’s John. I got him. We’re, ah, we’re in the northwestern most set of tunnels. I don’t know how we got separated from you lot, but it’s dark as shit, and all I have this stupid torch app on my phone. Can you find us? Right. Ta. See you soon.”

John put the phone on the ground between us, just barely illuminating both of us. His face is taut, eyes extremely alert. Forgot to shave this morning. Blonde and grey hairs along his jaw. He looks younger than usual. “Okay, Greg’s on his way. Let’s go check out the body, yeah?” 

I nodded again. Okay. Unable to speak. Not out of fear. Never fear. Out of…? Ah. Cheeks flushed. Stomach fluttering. It’s John. John has rendered me speechless. New data. What precisely about John in this moment has rendered me speechless? Unclear. 

I *do* so very much like it when John uses his gun. Don’t know why. Euphemism? Perhaps. I have wondered before what it would have been like to see him in his soldiering days, in fatigues, in control of a troop of 15 people, giving orders. The thought often makes me feel uncomfortably warm. I push it away. I’ve tried to delete it, but have been unable to.

“Sherlock? Come on.” John picks up his phone, opens the torch app, faces it forward. We approach the body. John’s gun is still drawn. He prods the body with his foot, kneels down and puts his fingers to the man’s wrist. “He’s dead. Good. He deserved it.”

John does not usually talk like this. His voice sounds much angrier than I anticipated. There he goes again, surprising me. He always does that. I finally find my voice. “Yes, paedophiles usually do. No loss there.”

“Okay, well, I don’t really want to hang out by this body. Let’s go back where we were and wait for Greg.” John’s phone lights the way back to the tunnel we had been in. John leans up against the wall. Head tilted back. Throat exposed. I can see his heartbeat throbbing under his jaw. He puts the safety back on the gun, tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. 

I lean against the wall, too. Mimic John’s pose. I do that. Mimic John. His hand movements sometimes, the way he holds a pen, a scalpel. Sometimes I try to make the faces he makes, in the bathroom mirror. Makes me feel closer to him somehow. 

He rolls his head to look at me, holding his phone light up between us. “I would kill anyone that tried to hurt you. Just...so you know. Anyone. I would kill them where they stood.” His mouth shuts quickly, lips clamping together. It is clear that’s all he wanted to say.

I can’t understand the feelings in my chest. I feel...physically tight? Full? Like I’m choking? Need data. I am still trying to understand why I’m reacting this way to what John said when I feel his fingers brushing against mine, searching for my hand. John is trying to hold my hand. Okay. New data. I let him. 

We stand against the wall, silent, holding hands, in the dark, for many minutes. When the torch lights from Lestrade’s team begin flickering down the tunnel wall, he drops my hand. Walks away. “Oi, Greg! Over here!”

I lift my palm to my nose. It smells like John. Why do I have a lump in my throat?


	3. The Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sick, doesn't want Sherlock to leave him.

John is very sick. Feverish. 104.3 Fahrenheit. We’ve been to the hospital. They told me, give him ibuprofen, put cool clothes on his forehead, let him sleep. He should be better in the morning. There’s a 24 hour flu going round. 

He lolls against me if the cab on the way home. He’s only half conscious. I enjoy his weight against me, his head on my shoulder. Bit not good, Sherlock, he would say. I’m sick, he would say. You shouldn’t enjoy me being sick, he would say. John has become the voice in my head. John has replaced myself in my own mind. New data. 

For such a small framed person, he is surprisingly heavy. It was easier for me to get him down the steps from 221B than up them. I am trying to be gentle with him, not bang his head on the banister, or his shins against the treads.

I finally stumble us into my bedroom, not John’s - I cannot drag him up another set of steps. I have him on the bed, covered with an afghan. Funny. I don’t remember even having an afghan. Stop it, Sherlock. Useless data. Delete. 

I am not a caretaker. Not the way John is. He is gentle with people, he understands why they’re sad, or distraught, or angry. I understand what endorphins are released when people feel different emotions, and how an angry person’s body temperature is, on average, two degrees higher than a happy person’s. But I do not understand the why. And I don’t know what to do for John, now that I have given him the medicine, covered him in the bed, done what I was instructed to do. 

I get up to leave. John’s hand encircles my wrist. “Please don’t leave me.”

“You need to sleep, John. That’s what the doctor told me. I gave you the medicine, and now you need to sleep.” I try to pry his fingers off my wrist, which should be easy, but is not. John, always surprising me. 

“Sherlock. Please. Please just stay with me. I feel so awful, and dizzy, and I just really don’t want to be alone.” John’s voice is very small. 

“Alright, John. I’ll stay.” I perch on the edge of the bed, the balls of my feet on the floor. My body is tense. I look at John’s face, flushed with fever. His eyes are closed, long blonde/brown lashes resting on his skin. Why do I notice these things about John? I have never noticed these things about anyone else. 

John mumbles something incoherent. I lean down, 4 centimeters from his face. “What did you say, John?”

He turns his head, puts his extremely hot lips against my ear. Oh. That feels...nice. New data. Don’t want that to stop.

“I said, can you lie down with me? Please.” John is still moving his lips against my ear.  
I freeze. I am filled with emotions that make no sense. Anticipation? Yes. Excitement? Absolutely. Arousal? Yes, that too. I am not a good person. I know a good person would not feel aroused by a very ill flatmate asking for comfort. I know that, but I can’t delete the emotions I’m having, can’t push it away. 

“John, I don’t think…”

He interrupts me. “Please, Sherlock. Please. For me?” His voice is so soft. Pleading. I cannot deny John when he needs something from me. I push him, pester him, annoy him, and torment him sometimes...but when he truly needs me, I am incapable of refusing him. 

I breathe in deeply, trying to steel myself for this. “Alright, John. I will lay with you.”

He smiles. The laugh lines around his eyes crinkle. My breath catches in my throat. Why does my body have these reactions to John? I do not understand. I can watch a million people smiling, and not feel a single thing. But if John smiles, I feel as though there is a light in my chest, illuminating my whole body. Sentiment, Sherlock, sentiment, the John in my head laughs at me. 

“Budge over, John,” I push him gently, move him 22 inches, so I can fit next to him comfortably. I gingerly recline, not fully laying down, my shoulders and head upright. John makes a ?happy? sighing sound, and he curls against me. I go rigid. This is new. I don’t understand this. John would NOT do this with any of his other male friends, I am certain. I don’t know what’s happening. 

John is undeterred. He moves closer to me, rubbing his face against my shirt. Sleepy? Is he falling asleep? I don’t know. I can’t read him right now. Then a heavy, hot arm is thrown across my stomach, and he lurches his head onto my ribcage. I can feel his pulse humming against my skin. I like it. I like feeling his body draped over me. Even fevered and making me far, far too warm, I like it. I don’t want this to stop. I take a deep breath, feel myself relaxing, as much as I ever relax. 

He turns his head, his nose - lovely nose, I love how his nose is shaped - going into my shirt. Oh. I like that, too. So much new data about John. How I feel about John. 

His breathing becomes slower, more regular. Within five minutes, he is soundly asleep. I could get up. I could leave. He would stay asleep. But I don’t. I look down at him. My John. Mine. This is the first time I’ve thought of him that way. I file that away, this first time. 

He is...he is lovely. He is lovely, laying on my stomach, breathing softly through his mouth. I put one arm around his shoulders. A test. Does this feel good? Oh. Yes, it does. Evidently, John thinks so, too, because he sighs and burrows closer to me. 

We stay like that for hours. I lose track of time entirely. I am busy, observing him, collecting data. I watch how he sighs and mumbles in his sleep. I examine the ropey, thick muscles in his arms. Like those. I feel the muscles, ribs, tendons in his back. Like those, too. Memorize every strand of his hair. He has 17 grey hairs. Don’t tell me that, okay, Sherlock? I don't need to hear that, the John in my head says. 

Finally, it is very late now, I actually feel myself beginning to drift off to sleep. Suddenly, John’s arm is tightening around my waist. He is stirring, making whimpering noises. I open my eyes. Look down at him. He doesn’t look unhappy, quite the opposite, actually. 

“Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock. Yes, do that, that…ah…” Oh. John is having an erotic dream. About me. That is unexpected. 

“I love you, too,” He whispers against my shirt. “I love you, too, Sherlock.”

I say nothing. I do not know what to do with this data. John falls silent again, relaxes against me. He loves me. In his sleep. When he’s sick with fever. What does this mean? Does he also love me when he’s awake? When he’s well? Do I love him? Yes. I do. I already know that. 

Eventually, I fall asleep, too. When I wake up, it is morning, and John is gone. He has tucked the afghan around me. I pick up my phone, where John must have put it, on the bedside table. One new text.

Thanks for staying with me last night. You’re a good mate. JW

I put my phone down. For some reason, I don’t want to look at that text for one more second.


	4. The Fourth Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes on a date, and comes home to Sherlock. The closest to non-canon I've come in this one. This is post-Baskerville, pre-Reichenbach.

“Dinner?” I say to John. He’s just walked into the kitchen. He’s hungry. Always pinches the sides of his mouth tightly when he’s hungry. He chews on the inside of his left cheek. Left cheek, never the right one. I’m starving, but that’s neither here nor there. I never eat. John’s hungry, he must eat. 

We’ve just returned to London from the Baskerville case. John has been distant. Angry with me. Denies it, but he breathes hard through his nose when we have to have more than quick, surface conversations. His tell. He has no idea he does it. Leaves rooms when I enter them. Watches telly constantly, computer open on his lap. Ignores me. 

Damn. May have gone too far this time. Poisoned his coffee - well, tried to. Yelled at him in public. Forced him into a situation that brought back war memories. He had nightmares in the hotel room that last night we were there. Woke up sweating and crying. Wouldn’t let me touch him, talk to him. The train ride home to London was long and silent. 

He’s never been angry with me this long. 

“Nope. I got a date. Going out.” Lips tight. Won’t make eye contact. ‘Seeya, Sherlock.”

I wait a beat after he leaves the kitchen. I want to go after him. What will I do when I catch up with him? Profess my love? I snort. No. I won’t do that. No point in going after him. Though, I notice, I am halfway off the stool, muscles poised, ready to run.

Sit down, Sherlock. I’ll be home later, says the John in my head.

I close my eyes, shake my head. 

Get out of there, John.

I’m always here, Sherlock.

Denim blue eyes. Long lashes. Strong square hands, always 3 shades darker than the rest of his skin. Sliver of taut pale stomach showing beneath a hideous jumper as he stands on tiptoes to reach a book. I shiver, eyes still closed. 

Down, Sherlock, laughs John in my head. 

Damn! I have got to stop thinking things like this. John is decidedly not interested, as he has always very assertively told anyone who wondered. And even if he was, what on earth would I do with him? I don’t have relationships. I am like a freight train, a whirlpool. A black hole. I suck people in and destroy them. I am too much for anyone to handle. I’m too much for myself sometimes.

Except me, whispers John in my head. 

Shut.up.John.

You don’t devour me. I’m strong. I can handle you, Sherlock. 

SHUT UP, JOHN. 

“What? I didn’t even say anything.” Oh. There’s the real John, all furrowed brow and blinking, standing next to his chair. His coat is in his hand. 

I spoke out loud. Damn. I shrug, try to make my eyes as twinkly as possible. Smile. John likes it when I smile. His pulse picks up, indicating arousal of some kind, either sexual or possibly not. But his breathing always slows down at the same time, indicating he’s content, calm. He is an enigma, my John. 

“Ooo-kay. Well. Just...forgot my coat. I’ll see you later. Be home late.” He leaves again, but I catch the ghost of a smile on his lips as he walks through the door. He’s less angry with me now. I don’t know why. John reacts in ways I never expect. It’s both frustrating and something else...something I can’t name, or understand. 

I go back to work, focusing on the samples in the microscope. John will be home later. He always comes home to me.

***

3:36am. The front door of Baker Street opens quietly. John’s trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson. He thinks about things like that. I would just slam the door open with the same amount of force, regardless of time of day. 

I’m still in the kitchen. Still working. John’s been gone for 8 hours and 47 minutes. If John’s on a date for more than 3 hours, it is what he terms a “good date”. This must have been a very good one, indeed. 

He walks into the flat, twists his head to look at me. “Cheers, Sherlock. I knew you’d still be up.”

He sinks down into my chair. Not his. He doesn’t want his back to me. Good. that’s an improvement over the last week.

“How was your date?” I stand up. Stretch, though I don’t need to. Allow my shirt to come untucked. John’s blue eyes travelling down to my waist. Hold back the smile, Sherlock. Hold it back. 

What are you trying to do? Seduce me? You’re not very good at this, you know. 

Shut up John. 

“Ah, alright.” Hair mussed. Shirt collar tucked differently than when he left. Long brown hair on his sleeve. I get closer to him, sit in his chair. Our knees are 6 inches apart. Scuffs on the thighs of his trousers - fingernails. Ah. He’s definitely had sex with her, then, whoever it was. 

“Good. Going to see her again?” Not that I care. Sudden tightness in my throat. Nostrils flaring. Jaw tight. I’m angry. Oh. Because John had sex. And the evidence is staring me in the face, virtually screaming at me that it isn’t, won’t ever be, me that he wants. 

“Nah. She was...well, sort of boring.” John grins at me, really grins, for the first time since Baskerville. Blue eyes. Such blue, deep, bright, indigo blue. Sparkling. Post-coital glow? No. This smile is for me. “But then...I guess nothing compares to being drugged, almost attacked by an imaginary dog, and watching someone blow himself up in a minefield.”

I laugh, and John does, too. The tension between us eases. 

“I am sorry I tried to poison you, you know. And about the...the...lab...thing.” John. The only person who ever reduces me to sounding like a normal person. 

“No you’re not,” John laughs harder, and I do, too. No one else makes me laugh. Ever. Just John. 

“No, you’re right. I’m not.” 

And suddenly, he’s clutching his sides, and crying with laughter, leaning back in my chair. After 3 minutes, he wipes the tears from his cheeks and sits up, still grinning broadly.

“Ah, I needed that. Been far too serious around here lately. Sorry I was so...you know...bloody shitty with you this week. I think I just had to deal with some things in my own head.” He smiles at me. Softer than the grin. Lips softer. Blue eyes looking at my mouth. I lick my lips, purposely. John shivers, just a little. No one else would see it. But I do. He shakes his head, “Fancy a cuppa, Sherlock?”

“Yes. Let’s.” I clap my hands together and stand up. John stands up at the same time, and suddenly, we are chest to chest, millimeters separating us. John’s breath on my neck. I swallow. The space between us is so charged. I can feel the heat from his body radiating on to mine. He’s always hotter than I am.

We say nothing. Neither of us move. I can feel how fast John’s breathing has become. He tilts his head to look up at me, the tip of his nose - lovely nose - making contact with the edge of my jaw. I have to concentrate very hard not to let the whimpering noise in my throat come out of my mouth. 

He puts his hand on my chest, right over my heart. Leaves it there. Still looking up at me. I am afraid to make eye contact, afraid of what I will release, allow myself to do. 

What do you want to do, Sherlock? The John in my head sounds much more seductive than the real John ever has.

Well, kiss you, of course, you idiot. 

Then the real John is touching my chin, between his thumb and index finger, and pulling my face down to look at him. My heart rate has sped up so that I can actually feel the blood pumping through my heart. It hurts. John is looking at my mouth, his own lips are parted, lax. He looks up into my eyes. Pupils dilated. Oh.

“Sherlock. I…” He can’t seem to finish the sentence. 

I remain silent. I am terrified - I am? I’m never terrified. Of anything. But, no, yes, I am terrified right now - of breaking this mood, whatever has come over him. We haven’t been this physically close since the night he was so sick, over a year ago now. I desperately - I am never desperate. Except perhaps for a fag, occasionally - desperately want to kiss him. But I won’t. I will not do this to John. It must be his choice. 

He puts his face against mine. I can feel his eyelashes on my cheek. He’s closing his eyes. His hand moves down from my heart. His hand is on my back now. Pressing, pressing into the small of my back. 

“Oh, Sherlock. What is it with us?” I can feel his lips on my skin. My brain functions are decreasing in ability by the second. “Why can’t we just…”

Finally I speak, and my voice is much huskier than I expect it to be. “Just what, John?”

He hums a little. His fingers move against my back. He’s very aroused now. I can feel his skin has heated up, and there are goose pimples across his neck and face. I can feel them against my own skin. He does want me. At least in this moment. 

He brushes his lips so gently against my cheek, my jaw. It’s not a kiss. Not quite. Just, a touch. I have to stop myself from shuddering. No one has ever, ever affected me like this. What is it about John? It’s everything. It’s the changes he can affect in me. He makes me angry, and frustrated, and happy, and aroused, and he makes me better. He reminds me to act like a person when I forget how. He cares about what other people think about me. He cares whether I’ve eaten. He cares about me in a way I cannot even care about myself. 

And he’s smart. So much smarter than I have ever given him credit for. The only person I can have an equal conversation with. And he’s strong, in ways I am not. 

I allow my head to tilt, sinking towards his mouth. And suddenly, his hands are off me. My back feels cold and empty where his hand was. I can still feel the press of his thumb on my chin. I open my eyes. He’s backed up. Indigo eyes looking startled. Shocked that he’s allowed himself to show this to me. He can’t take it back. He knows that, and it scares him. 

“Just...ah…” He presses his lips together, looks up at the ceiling, “Just...ah, remember to do that shopping. I don’t even think we have tea.”

He walks away from me, into the kitchen. Opening cabinets, making himself busy. The moment is over. 

And I know what he was going to say. Why can’t we just be who we are? Why can’t we just be together? Everyone assumes we are already. 

Because you don’t want to be, John. Remember?

Ah. Yes. That. Not gay. Says the John in my head. 

The real John in the kitchen shakes a box of teabags at me, all the desire in his eyes gone now, “Found some.”

And I go into the kitchen to put the kettle on.


	5. The Fifth Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during The Reichenbach Fall. A few little vignettes we didn't see. Alleys, running, holding hands...that sort of thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is relatively non-canonical, because it's pretty clear at this point that Sherlock's in love with John, which obviously has never been explicitly said on the show/in the books. But this vignette is sort of charged with the emotions of that episode, and so it's a bit more lovey dovey than the previous ones. 
> 
> So. Just FYI. I'm verging on non-canon territory here. Just verging. Not quite there.

“You look sad. When you think he can’t see you.” Molly Hooper’s words echoing in my head. Why can’t I delete them? Muscle jumping in my jaw. Teeth clenched. Why am I angry? Because she noticed. Because I’ve been unable to hide how I feel about John from even Molly. 

Because you’ve been deduced, Sherlock. John in my head grins at me. 

No, John. Well, yes, but not ONLY that. It’s because I know what is about to happen. To me. To you. To us. And you don’t. Can’t. For your own safety. Because I cannot bear to lose you.

I already know what Moriarty is planning, and Mycroft and I have worked out 13 different solutions to the problem, depending on exactly what Moriarty does. But none of them involve John. Because Moriarty knows. Knows that I would never allow John to be hurt, which is why he’s Moriarty’s target. And so he cannot be involved in this.

And I know I have to leave him. And cause him pain. And lie to him. Well, I lie to him all the time. But nothing like this. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt him and lie to him and leave him. I’m such a different person now from what I was three years ago. He’s changed me, made me better, made me feel. And it’s all going to…”go to shit”, as John would say. I swallow over the painful lump in my throat. Glottis opening. Stress response. Sentiment, Sherlock. 

I glance over at John, looking out the window of the cab. The silhouette of his face against the yellow of the streetlights. The curve of his nose, those incredibly, impossibly long eyelashes. Who has eyelashes like that? They get tangled together when he blinks. Strong jaw under the softness that comes with aging. He radiates strength and sureness, self confidence. Everyone likes John. Everyone. Even Mycroft, who likes no one, likes John. He has absolutely no idea how handsome he is, how appealing. Always says he’s too short. Nose too big. Scars from spots when he was a teenager. Why women like me, I’ll never know, Sherlock, he’s said to me on five separate occasions. 

Because you’re lovely, John. And kind, and honest, and you make people feel safe and loved. Because you're strong when so many people are weak.

I almost kissed you the other night, you know, you great awful prat, the John in my head says. 

I know. I’m glad you didn’t. It would have made everything now so much worse. Would have made leaving you so much worse. 

“What?” John turns and looks at me, eyebrows knitted together. He’s very tense. Anxious. Worried about me. See how his hand trembles. It only does that when something’s got to do with me. Never anyone else. “What is it, Sherlock?”

I shake my head. I can’t think of a lie quickly enough. “Nothing, John.” 

“You were staring at me. You were thinking something. What was it? Have you figured out something about Moriarty? The kids - where they are?” John turned to face me. His arm going on to the back of the seat. The tips of his fingers were less than 5 centimeters from my shoulder. 

“No. No, I haven’t figured that out yet.” We look at each other. I have not been able to forget the other night. The feeling of his lips on my skin. I cannot - no, I don’t want - to delete it. And knowing what I know now, I want to catalogue, preserve, that memory forever. It may have been the first and last time. 

John bends his arm, puts his fist against his temple. Stares at me. “You’re not telling me something.” He points at me. He points at me when he’s bossing me around, trying to make me capitulate to him. 

I would anyway, John. I would do anything for you. Even leave you.

“There’s all sorts of things I don’t tell you, John.” I’m trying for lightness, but it comes off all wrong. John frowns. 

“I don’t like that, Sherlock. We’re supposed to be working together here. You underestimate me.” He’s angry now. The nose breathing. The muscle in his jaw popping. He thinks I think he’s an idiot. 

I’m protecting you, John. It’s not because I underestimate you. You’re the smartest person I know next to myself. Mycroft doesn’t count, he’s barely a person. Its because I love you. Because I’ve never had a friend before. Because I don’t even love my own brother. But I love you. 

All I say out loud is, “Ah, We’re here. Let’s go talk to Lestrade.” 

And we jump out of the cab, conversation unfinished. Delete. 

***

Running. Breathless. Our feet pounding on the cobblestones. Ducking into alcoves, doorways, sticking to the alleys. Handcuffed together. Moriarty has really played this game. Played it much better than I have. 

Really bollocksed this one, didn’t you, Sherlock? John in my head says. 

The real John peers around the corner of the building we’re standing behind. Watching to see the lights of the police cars receding. He turns back to me and nods. Coast is clear. 

“Take my hand.” I say. 

He doesn’t hesitate. And suddenly, his palm is against mine. Rough, calloused. Short fingers wrapping around the fleshy outside of my hand. The tips of my fingers on John’s metacarpal bones, feelling each bump. Even now, running from the police, being framed by a serial killer, I cannot help but feel a tingle where our skin touches. 

And then I’m pulling him. And we’re running again. Blue lights coming round the end of the street. Damn. 

We duck into another alcove. There’s a blue plaque above John’s head. He’s breathing hard, doubled over, one hand braced on his thigh. Our hands are still pressed together. He hasn’t let go, even though we’ve stopped running. I can’t help the smile that creeps on to my face. 

“Sherlock. You really need to work on that. Smiling, you know, over kidnapped kids, and when we’re on the run from the police. It’s...it’s not good.” John looks up at me, then straightens up. “This is so fucked up. I can’t believe GREG arrested you. Me. I can’t…”

I press my hand over his mouth. He immediately stops talking. There are voices very close to us. Footsteps coming down the street. There’s no where to go. This isn’t an alley, we can’t go back any further. 

“John. Pretend we’re snogging.” It’s the only thing I can think of that won’t attract attention. The footsteps are getting closer. 

“WHAT?” John backs up against the wall, as far away from me as he can get. Still holding my hand, though. Interesting. 

“We won’t really be. But we need to be invisible. No one will notice two people snogging - that happens all the time. We just can’t look like we’re hiding.” The footsteps are 5 feet away. Someone asks to stop so she can light a cigarette. They pause. 

John’s lips are pressed together. He shakes his head, closes his eyes. He’s struggling. Finally, he says, “Oh fuck, come here.” And he yanks me forward by my coat. Slides one hand around the side of my head, pulling my face down. His face in my neck. 

I brace my free hand against the wall, hiding John’s head with my coat sleeve. We’ve been on the telly, anyone will recognize us. I feel John’s head move against my neck. Breathing. Breathing IN. He’s...he’s smelling me. No. Yes. That is exactly what he’s doing. New data. Interesting. 

I turn my face towards the side of his head, away from the street. My lips make contact with the helix of John’s ear. It takes every bit of control I have to not open my lips and bring his skin into my mouth. I am beginning to understand how the adrenaline rush from fear or danger is associated with sexual arousal. 

Our heads move as if we were actually kissing, though the contact is just brushes, barely there. I hear the group of people walk right past us. One girl wolf whistles, “Get it, boys!” She calls to us in a East End clipped accent. John sniggers into my neck. They move on. The street goes silent. 

“Ok, Sherlock. I think we can, ah, move now.” John’s pushing at my chest with his free hand. Pushing me away. “That was a good idea, though, mate. They probably would have noticed if we were just standing here in the dark, looking like creepy pedos..” I look at him. He looks mussed, skin is reddish. He’s smiling, though. 

And my heart, the heart so many people think I don’t even have, feels like it’s clenching into a painful ball. I can actually feel it. Impossible. Hearts don’t do that. But then, John’s always made my body react in ridiculous, impossible ways. 

I will do anything for you, John. Even leave you.

Our hands still pressed together, we duck out of the alcove and run.


	6. Reunion at Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during The Empty Hearse, a redo of the reunion at Baker St. John finally says all the stuff he didn't say about how he felt when Sherlock was gone.
> 
> This will be the last chapter, because all the other stuff that "almost happened", happened on the damn SHOW. I don't really have anything to add. ; )

John and I are standing in the middle of the sitting room at 221B. Just staring at each other. 

In the last two days, since I revealed myself to John, he’s punched me, throttled me, and head butted me. Then dead silence. I know I deserve all of it, for leaving, for putting him through what he’s been through the last two years, but I admit, I expected a warmer reception.

This is the most awkward we’ve ever been, though. John just keeps looking away. Breathing through his nose. I’m just waiting. I don’t want to do anything else that could upset him. I feel him slipping away from me, and I’m so afraid. I’ve never been afraid, truly, in my life. But losing John. That terrifies me.

We’ve been silent for more than ten minutes. 

Finally, John clears his throat. Another one of his tells. I can’t stop the half smile that creeps onto my lips. I have missed him so. 

“How many people, Sherlock? How many people knew?” His voice is so harsh. He’s so angry at me. I don;t know how I couldn’t have anticipated this. 

“John, must we really? Again? I’m sorry.” I need to make contact with him. The way we used to be, easily brushing up against each other, invading each other’s spaces, legs resting against each other while we watched telly, an arm dropped behind the other’s shoulders. I want that so badly, but there’s Mary now, and John doesn’t live here anymore, and oh, there’s bile rising in my throat at the thought of her, of THEM. 

I reach out and touch his arm. At least he doesn’t flinch away, though he doesn’t look very pleased, either. “John, I am so truly sorry. Please.”

“Please, what, Sherlock?” He snaps off the end of the sentence, and digs his teeth into his lower lip. 

Please forgive me. Please come home. Please remember what we are to each other and leave her. Please, please, help me understand why I don’t feel the same anymore, why it’s hard to think sometimes, why I get things wrong now. Please help me understand why everything hurts now. Please be my best friend again. Please put your lips on mine, and push me back on the sofa...no, no, NO, Sherlock. Stop that. 

That didn’t happen before, and it certainly won’t now. Now that there’s MARY. The thought of her brings a sneer to my mouth, and I have to rub my hands over my face to keep the expression from John. 

“Well? Spit it out.” John is seething. It’s in every vibration of his skin, every movement of his face. 

“Please just...understand that I couldn’t tell you.” It sounds pathetic even to my ears. I try again. This is JOHN. I mustn’t lose him. “I am so sorry. I can’t tell you how much.”

Teeth now digging into his upper lip. His eyes close, and he breathes deep and still for a moment. “Sherlock. I grieved for you. I...I was drinking. I was lost. I don’t think you’ve ANY real idea what you dying did to me. It...it wrecked me.”

He sinks into his chair. He never speaks so openly about emotions. Well, neither do I. But this is unprecedented territory for John. He’s so stolid, so resolute. I would never have expected him to have been so undone by someone dying. Even me. 

I don’t know what to do, or say. 

“Say something, Sherlock.” He looks up at me from under his eyelashes, lips pressed in a thin line. 

“I had no idea, John. I truly...I didn’t know.” I’m lost for words. 

“Well, let me tell you then, okay. And don’t fucking interrupt me, because this shit is really hard, okay?” His finger is levelled at me, shaking a bit. I nod. “Okay. Let me tell you what it was like to to see you laying on the ground in a pool of fucking blood. It was the worst moment of my life to that point, yeah? I felt helpless, and useless, and desperate, and I’d no fucking idea what to do with all the bullshit you’d just told me on the phone, and then they took you away from me. And I was alone, staring at a pool of your blood. I don’t even know how long I sat there, until they finally made me move.”

He pauses for a breath. I feel like I can’t breathe. This is my punishment. Listening to how I tormented the only person in the world that I never want to cause pain.

“And then, I had to come here.” His lips are pulled back from his teeth, he’s practically spitting the words out now. “And I had to look, at all the things...the life that we had. Your chair, and your fucking dressing gowns all over the place. Your favourite mug. And it was like needles in my fucking eyes every time I had to look at that shit. I didn’t move your fucking mug for weeks. It was half full of tea, and it grew fucking mould, and I STILL didn’t move it. Because all I could see was your hand putting it there, and I couldn’t bear to change that. YOU put it there, and there it would stay.”

He pauses again, his voice choked with something very close to tears. The lump in my own throat has grown to painful proportions. 

“And then one day, I literally just couldn’t be here anymore. It was like living INSIDE a memory. It was excruciating. And I left, and I never came back. I got a flat, and took some bags, and that was that. And I would sit, in that squalid, miserable little flat, and I would think about you. All the time. Every second. And I would think about what I could have done differently, so that wouldn’t have happened. About how I fucked it up. And you were all over the news, how you were a fake and a fraud, and I couldn’t BEAR it. It made me want to set something on fire. I was so angry, so ANGRY, Sherlock. At you, at myself, at everyone. I actually cried myself to sleep. A lot of nights. ME. I cried myself to sleep. I want you to understand what that means. I didn’t cry when I got bloody SHOT. But you. Losing you. I cried A LOT. Okay, so just, when you say that you’re fucking sorry...understand how that looks from my end, mmm? Doesn’t quite cut it.”

I’m on the verge of tears myself. I keep opening my mouth to say something, but nothing’s happening. 

John’s put his head in his hand, he’s just staring into the cold fireplace. I have no idea what to say to him. I know what I want to do, but...I can’t. I can’t possibly. Because there would be no way he wouldn’t know how I feel about him, if I sank down onto my knees and put my arms around his waist, and held him, and murmured “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” over and over against his stomach. Which is EXACTLY what every single cell in my body wants me to do. I’m shaking with the restraint of standing here, not touching him. 

But then he looks up at me, his eyes so round and blue and unhappy, and he shrugs at me. “I couldn’t live without you, really.”

I can’t hold it in. If he’s going to hate me, let him hate me for this, instead of for having left him. Let him hate me for the apology. 

I sweep over to him, my knees thumping painfully on the floor, and kneel in between his knees. He looks a bit shocked, but not horribly so. Now that I’m here, though, the idea of putting my arms around him is far too intimate. I put my hand on his forearm instead. Suddenly his hand is over mine. I look at him, his jaw is hard and set, his eyes intense and stormy. 

There’s an electricity between us right now. It’s fueled by John’s anger, and my fear, but it’s there. It’s crackling, sparking with light. It’s searing hot and white like lightening. John’s hand snakes up my arm, over my shoulder, until it’s against the bare skin of my neck. His thumb passes over the corner of my jaw, once, twice. 

I let my arm slide off the arm of the chair, resting on top of John’s thigh. He’s breathing heavier, eyes watching his thumb on my face, occasionally flicking to my mouth. I lick my lips, and he shivers. I push my arms along either side of him, fingers behind his back. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and our eyes snap together. 

His eyes are so heavy. Still angry, but there’s desire there, too. Heat. 

I don’t dare speak. He pitches forward a little, resting his forehead against mine, our noses aligned. He breathes out for a long moment. “Oh Sherlock. Why did you leave? Now it’s all...things would have been different.”

He practically swallows the last word, mumbling so I can barely make it out. But I know what he said, even though he’s trying to hide it. “Different how, John?” I’m whispering. Anything above a whisper threatens the sanctity of what is happening here. 

“I don’t know….just… different.” He nudges his nose against mine, and our lips almost touch. I almost cry out with the loss of what could have been a kiss. My god, I am desperate for this. Desperate for his forgiveness, and his attention. 

We stay like that for what feels like years, and then, suddenly, he changes the tilt of his head just a little, and our mouths do brush. It’s chaste, close mouthed, but it’s like a lightening rod through me. I gasp, I can’t help it, and my fingers tighten at John’s back. 

He seems to realise what he’s done when I gasp, and immediately pulls his head back. I’m expecting a total rejection, him leaping out of his chair, heading back to her. But he gives me a painfully sad smile, and slips his arms around my shoulder blades, leans back in his chair, pulling me with him. He actually presses my head to his belly, and runs his fingers through my hair. I allow myself to relax into him, my weight pressing into the insides of his thighs. 

I’ve dreamt about touching him, holding him, talking to him, for two years. I don’t ever want to move again. John’s twirling a curl of my hair around his fingers, knotting it and unknotting it, rubbing the lock between his thumb and forefinger, and his other hand is kneading the back of my neck. I allow myself to turn my face into his stomach, breathing him in. A contented grin spreads across my face, as I smell in those familiar John smells - coffee and tea, laundry soap, and just a clean, outdoorsy small that is all John.

He shifts a bit in the chair, and I go to get up, thinking the moment has passed. His fingers tighten against the nape of my neck. “Don’t you dare move.”

I have to suppress the bubble of emotion that rises up in me, threatening to burst out with an undignified noise. I tuck my legs under me, and lay my head back down on John’s lower stomach. His hand falls back into my hair. “Yeah, just...stay there.”

We sit like that for I honestly don’t know how long, until John finally says he’s starving, and I suggest Angelo’s, and we throw on our coats and walk off down Baker Street together like no time has passed at all. 

We don’t talk about what happened, and after dinner and a few glasses of wine, he goes home to Mary. But I can feel his fingers in my hair as I’m falling asleep, and smell him on my skin, and that’s enough for me right now.


End file.
